This week’s exercise was titled ‘Titles’, all taken from photographs or paintings, (mostly Frida Kahlo). Suggested prompt: adopt a title for your writing or use some of these words within your writing. The titles are:
‘I Belong to my Owner’.
‘Portrait of a Girl’.
‘Self Portrait with Necklace of Thorns’.
‘They Asked for Planes but were Given Straw Wings’.
‘What the Water Gave Me’.
‘The Bright Cloud’.
‘My Dress Hangs There’.
‘The False Mirror’.
#1 – Titles #2 – Spirited Dress by Helen McGinnis
#1 – Titles
Straw wings are better than no wings
All angels have to start at the beginning.
straw will warm the coldest heart.
if hearts had wings they would burn like a thousand butterflies, wild and free.
#2 – Spirited Dress
It was draped over the moss-covered branch tantalisingly swinging to and fro with the winds soft whispers.
The teal coloured lace, a fine spectacle to behold. It was like exquisite fine dining on the fully-exposed retina.
Full-bodied, voluminous velvet swaying, teaching the young how to move. Sultry, strong, sure of her childbearing hips.
Many a stallion would fight to drink this spirit.
Barefoot, with raven black hair, fearless eyes with a mouth that speaks her mind. No other could bewitch the fabric of this world.
What the water gave us by Jodi Glass
What the water gave us
The soaking of flesh in hot water
cleansing the soul of outside worries,
steam unclogging worried pores
dissolving concerns, pollution and outside scum swirling,
carelessly, but separate, floating from us.
Smells of the ocean, clears the mind
city dwellers forget they are city dwellers.
Smells of Hawaii;
gentle heat, reminds of summer days
conditioner of spa days
what the water gave us was sheer magic
30 minutes of nothing but relaxation.
Three untitled experiments with titles by V. Rivers
Three untitled experiments with titles
I belong to
with [a] necklace of thorns.
They asked for
[a] cloud [to]
portrait, a self portrait with
they asked for.
the bright [idea]
planes, but were given
Fear: A Collection by anon
Fear: A Collection
I. The False Mirror
that’s how it starts
dull and creeping.
shadows in the back of your mind.
while they tend the fires of doubt
lest the Light claim your eyes!”.
the thing with shadows is
the more you
the further in they close.
as flames roar
the only sound you hear
is a soothing song
until your world
is a vision
of black alabaster
where you can’t tell the difference
between shadow and caster.
II. Portrait of An Owner
we take the medicine
that consumes us.
leaks through the cracks
in our spine.
we make moves in the dark.
over useless pieces
of used-to-be heart.
the road less travelled
doesn’t go our way.
many have been led astray.
so we wait
with bated breath
for the next hit
to keep us in place.
III. a bête noire
we were promised planes
but given straw wings
tethered to the shore.
they remind us
we can fly
but not to aim too high
too close to the light.
that we might see
what Icarus seen.
living isn’t being
without a doubt
he would tell us
he didn’t fly high enough.
so, for the spectacle
we’ll gladly burn
belonging to none
that’s how endings begin
bright and sprawling.
[ anon ]
Week 3 lockdown poem by Lotty
Week 3 lockdown poem
Three weeks, but only now does the fear set in. Every day numbers come in thick and fast; each face has family and friends going through hell. All because of a silent stalker that we cannot see, let alone smell.
Coronavirus, well I’ve got to hand it to you – at least with your killing spree you aren’t being biased. Rich, poor, famous, ordinary, they have all had a visit. Even our Prime Minister wasn’t quite clever enough to miss it, seeping through rapidly like your forefathers with the Plague. You show no mercy, not even to those who have a faith; and they will practically beg and yet you still choose a victim who ends up dying alone in a hospital bed, with not even a kind hand to stroke their head.
Fragments of Water. by Kathy Low
Fragments of Water.
under the surface, deceptive calm,
the treachery of the long forgotten.
A squall may engender a stirring of silt.
Beware of what may surface.
iron clouds close down the day.
The air fizzles with skin crawling energy.
Deafening light fills my being
and unleashes curtains of water cascading and battering
and the dying bird at my feet.
The pale ocean stretches to the perfect circle of the horizon
a thousand miles from land.
Who knew the truth could be so wondrous?
Fish are gliding, glistening,
hold the candle.
Thick silence behind his words.
Sweet oil on skin, soft intake of breath.
Attentiveness and wandering thoughts mingle
in the stale incense.
A sudden cry as chill water awakens.
Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris.
new lease by Peter Marshall
portrait of a girl
not the way I see myself –
such sadness carried –
self portrait with necklace of
thorns show my anguish
upon rainy day
my dress hangs neatly wardrobed –
through historic drought
bright cloud glows with joy –
this cherished existence known
ever clasp to good
straw wings float not fly –
tumbling through thick atmosphere
towards saline bath
ask for planes to glide
over waves afar from pain –
sea’s swollen belly
now endless descent –
false mirror fast approaches
other side held back
cold submersion shock
water gives new lease of life –
fresh outlook to share
I belong to my owner –
my owner is me
2020 04 05 Peter Marshall
Her Love For The Sea by Elisheva Katz
Her Love For The Sea
Every sunrise – Every sunset,
Came she to the deep blue sea.
Always sea was calling
Dancing her like a seagull unto him.
Under crashing waves she swam deep, deep
Into the very heart of the sea that she would become,
Flying the white horses of sea’s dance.
In these times is when she was truly alive
Brought to her dreams of freedom.
A life beyond the darkness
Gave hope that summer would come again,
Hope she dearly held onto.
Sea’s changing waters were changing her
With saltwater kisses
Drenched in emotions so strong
It was killing her slowly but quick.
The time when sea called her no more
Was the time she let go of all hope.
Did sea not know how she loved him so?
Danced did she no more.
Where she had gone to nobody knew.
Why sea’s waters had turned cold was a mystery.
Only one truth now remains
Of that time in winter’s mists.
Every sunrise – Every sunset,
From the heart of the deep blue sea
Her voice can still be heard singing on sea’s breeze
As the white horses dance in his waves.